


safe harbors

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Attraction, Codependency, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, POV Second Person, Sibling Incest, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-10-12 22:44:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20572163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: He’s caught you in one of Kirkwall’s many alleys and that’s the only reason you know of that allows you to slam him against the wall. It’s darker here and abandoned. There’s nobody around to see you shoving a Templar around. Your arm covers the breadth of his chest plate, holds him in place. Though he could break it, he doesn’t. “I. Don’t. Need. Your. Help.” You’re almost nose to nose, close enough to kiss, his breath ghosting across your mouth. “I don’t want anything from you.” A lie, a lie. “I didn’t come looking for you after—” After mother, but you can’t say that. “I haven’t needed anything from you in years.” Another lie, but it strikes the mark and now he’s the one flinching. “I’m going home, Carver. Don’t follow me.”





	safe harbors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Artemis1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/gifts).

You see him sometimes as you travel through the city, particularly the docks, so near to the Gallows that it stops your breath, just a glint of Templar armor out of the corner of your eyes, there and gone. You’re never certain if he sees you too and simply ducks away to avoid your scrutiny or if it’s just a coincidence that your paths never manage to cross, but you’re always relieved that the choice is taken from you by unforeseen circumstances, by urgent need. Kirkwall’s always in need of saving. Your friends are always in need of saving. Cries for help and the expectation it will be given pull and suck at your attention and it’s easier to prioritize that than try to repair the rifts between you and the only family you have left, the one person in the world who knows you best, who has seen the worst of you and, most importantly, hasn’t managed to die yet on your watch.

He’s been mad at you for so long you’re not sure what would happen if you ran into him. You know what it is you’d like to do, warped though it is, undesirable and abhorrent though it should be. There’s always been a part of you that’s wanted his attentions above all others, good or bad, and having him gone has only sharpened that desire, pushed it to places you shouldn’t want it to go. There are ways, maybe, to assuage those feelings. Find someone, anyone, with whom you might spend a night or longer if you’re willing to pretend. Funnel those needs elsewhere. Pay for it if you have to. It wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve ever done.

(You know it won’t help, nothing can help. If it was so easy to fix the most terrible parts of you, you could’ve hired a companion long ago and been done with it. You might have tried once or twice when you were truly desperate, truly, truly alone. It never got further than a drink and a brief flirtation. It’s nowhere near the same as some of the fights you’ve had with Carver, those superficial pleasantries, and they leave you cold, though the people you’ve troubled at the Blooming Rose haven’t minded, call you their favorite customer they’ve never had to fuck for a good time. They are kind to you when you stop by, finding excuses to check on them, make sure nobody’s making their lives hell or being disrespectful. If you hope and fear that you might see Carver there with some of the other Templar recruits, off-duty and on their most ribald behavior, that’s your business.)

(You’ve at least stopped trying even that much. Carver never goes there anyway that you know of.)

You go through the motions of your day, say yes when Anders or Fenris or Isabela or Merrill or the whole damned city asks for something of you—though never the one person you wish would—and throw yourself into fights that aren’t yours until the title of Champion sits too heavily on your shoulders and you’re not sure whether you’re more Hawke or that city-wide invention the people around you believe you to be instead. It would be easier, you think, if you were the Champion only. Champions wouldn’t tangle themselves in the net you’ve caught yourself in, the nasty bind that only gets tighter the longer you’re stuck in it.

You see that glint of armor now as you step onto the street outside the Hanged Man. Varric’s harassed you into enjoying a night out and you’re a bit in your cups, pleasantly warm all over, body tingling and every emotion you have at a healthy, buzzing distance. It even takes you a moment to recognize the glint for what it is and recognize further that you should be unhappy to see it, that you should duck away, that you should—

“Brother?” he asks and you wince, wishing he wouldn’t still call you that. What kind of family can you be to him when you feel the way you feel, when you’ve done the things you’ve done? Though it’s dark, you can still tell its him even without the breadth of his accent to guide you. Lightning flickers in your hand, exposing you and him to harsh, crackling illumination. His cheeks are slightly pink and he’s even more beautiful than the last time you saw him up close like this. A frown pulls at his mouth and his eyes narrow, shadowed by furrowing brows. “I suppose I should’ve known I’d find you here.”

You would be more wounded if you didn’t feel as though you are floating. Varric sprang for the good stuff for once and sent you packing well before you could tip into messy, unhappy drunkenness. He truly is a good friend. “You have indeed,” you say, grandiose, “found me right here. Were you looking for me?”

“No,” he says, scoffing. “I’m on patrol.” He pauses, glaring, for effect. “For _mages_.” He doesn’t need to say more. You more than anyone is aware of the stranglehold Templars have over the city. Even if you didn’t want to keep yourself apprised, you’ve got Anders constantly reminding you, like you’re not just as invested in not seeing your own kind abused and made tranquil for the lightest of infractions.

It’s his way of telling you to knock it off, which you do, letting the darkness engulf the pair of you again. Perhaps it’s for the best. You’re not sure what he’ll see on your face if you keep it up. At least this way, he’ll have to struggle with only the ambient light from nearby homes and what few stalls remain open, lit by proper candles, hawking rougher wares than the usual daytime entrepreneurs. “Surely Knight-Captain Cullen would let me off on a technicality if you dragged me back to the Gallows.”

“You—” Shaking his head, he crosses his arms and clenches his jaw. “You really think I’d—”

It’s interesting that this is what offends him, rather than the fact that you’re currently existing in his vicinity at all. And you try not to take it as a good sign. Your hopes are always dashed when you assume the best of any circumstance. Carver’s never been one to let one slight go when he could harbor two or ten or twenty. He contains multitudes, after all, and room enough in his heart to carry many grudges. It doesn’t make you love him any less, though you rather wish it would. Nothing at this point could help it though. You’re stuck with it. “No, Carver, I don’t. You’re just the one who brought it up.”

He relaxes a small amount, not enough for your comfort, but more than you could have hoped to expect. Maybe just this once he doesn’t want to fight with you either. That would be a welcome first. You’re tired and sick at heart just looking at him and you don’t have the energy to do this just now, not when it’s taking everything you have to not step forward and do something both of you would regret, that he would never, ever in a thousand years understand or welcome. Stepping closer, he narrows his eyes and tilts his head. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not,” you say, pleasant enough, just the hint of a warning underneath, “but thank you for your concern.” This isn’t any of his business after all and now you’re rattled. Being this close to him, the softest edges of that fuzzy buzz you’d cultivated earlier were starting to sharpen into cold sobriety. If it was possible, you’d chase after it again, but there will be no recreating it without more alcohol and you worry you’ll jump directly into ugly drunk if you go back. Varric is only able to curb so many of your worst tendencies in one night. “I’ll let you get back to—”

You choke on the words, hating the reminder that by every measure anyone else would care about, you should be enemies. You should have been enemies this whole time, though you’ve managed to avoid thinking too hard about it this whole time. Carver could get into trouble for letting you go whatever else you say about Cullen’s past leniency with you. There are only so many ways you can protect yourself and Anders and Merrill from what has come and what will continue to worsen in the future if your guess is correct.

“Let me walk you back to the estate,” Carver says, reaching for you. That motion catches you by surprise and you flinch away unexpectedly, no doubt a self-defense mechanism meant to keep you from making a complete fool out of yourself before him. What would you do if he touched you right now, vulnerable as you feel, a flayed wound exposing bone and blood and contracting muscle and more pain than you know what to do with. He startles, too, at the violence of your reaction, his widening eyes glinting in what little light reaches them. “Maker, what’s the matter with you?”

You hurry past, chafing your palms up and down your arms. That buzz of yours is nothing but a memory now and all you feel is the cold. “Nothing is the matter, Carver. I don’t need your help.”

“Oh, you’ve always needed my help,” he says, stomping after you. He’s acting exactly as spoiled as you remember him being and you can’t help, very much despite yourself, being just a little bit warmed by the fact that he still cares enough to chase you. Even if it’s only because he’s mad at you, that’s more than you’d thought to expect from him. His hand wraps around your wrist—you’re not entirely certain how he caught up so quickly—and pulls you around. “Just because you don’t think I can give it to you doesn’t mean—”

He’s caught you in one of Kirkwall’s many alleys and that’s the only reason you know of that allows you to slam him against the wall. It’s darker here and abandoned. There’s nobody around to see you shoving a Templar around. Your arm covers the breadth of his chest plate, holds him in place. Though he could break it, he doesn’t. “I. Don’t. Need. Your. Help.” You’re almost nose to nose, close enough to kiss, his breath ghosting across your mouth. “I don’t want anything from you.” A lie, a lie. “I didn’t come looking for you after—” After mother, but you can’t say that. “I haven’t needed anything from you in years.” Another lie, but it strikes the mark and now he’s the one flinching. “I’m going home, Carver. Don’t follow me.”

You turn, intending to push him back toward the wide, dusty street proper, but your knee brushes the inside of his, pulls his robe taut and you hear a gasp and feel something warm against your thigh, something that definitely isn’t standard issue Templar armor, and suddenly it’s not you trying to shove him away, it’s him doing the scrabbling. You push him back almost before you realize it, throw him against the brick, and your heart is striking hard against your sternum, sounding loud as drums in your ear. “What the hell,” you say, which is the wrong thing to say, but you can’t—there’s no way. You’re disgusted with yourself for caging him this way, but you have to know. He’s got strength on you and Templar training and still he seems to be fully at your mercy. Your hand fists in his robes, pulling them from where they’d sat flat and neat against his chest, hidden beneath his armor. “Carver.”

“Fuck you,” Carver replies, uncharacteristically vehement, which is quite the achievement for him. He struggles again, but it’s only a token effort. You know he can do better if he wants to. That’s the only thing keeping you from feeling entirely guilty for doing this, but you can’t stop yourself from knowing what you felt now that you’ve felt it. That was—he’d been—that wasn’t the appropriate response to getting slammed against the wall by your brother, that much you’re sure of. There’s not a lot else in the world that makes sense to you like this does, but you’re certain of that much.

Anyone else would run as far away from this as fast as they could. They would have pretended they didn’t feel it, would have explained it away as adrenaline or fear or something else entirely.

But you, you’ve always been a little different and you’ll risk pushing this, because it’s not like things could get any worse. If he retreats to the Gallows, you might as well have truly earned it.

Your leg insinuates itself between his thighs, presses upward; he climbs onto his tiptoes, armor scraping against the wall. You feel him again anyway and there’s an answering swell within your own robes, hot and almost painful for how quickly you harden in response to him. “Carver,” you say again, lowering your voice, bowing your head forward. Your lips are dangerously close to the underside of his jaw. This is wrong, but you’ve never been very good at being right and you’re not about to change your ways now. “Carver, you have to explain. Tell me I’m wrong.”

If he does, you’ll never bring this up again. Maybe you’ll finally take someone else up on their offer. Maybe you’ll actually manage to have a life. But he has to tell you. There’s no other way out of this net. Part of you wants him to do just that. The rest of you—the sad, vast majority of you—wants him to lock the pair of you into this thing. Maybe it’s not fair for you to put this on him, but you can’t assert yourself in this way, not beyond what little you’ve already done.

You’re his older brother. You’re supposed to be responsible for him. You’re supposed to protect him from the worst of what the world can throw at him. Isn’t that how he ended up being a Templar to begin with? You should send him back. At least if he goes back there, he won’t be exposed to this. But though you know better, you’ve never been a particularly good man. You’re a bit rude, too jovial for your own good, too willing to take risks that you shouldn’t. And right now, you’re at the end of your rope, one that’s been fraying now for years anyway.

Is it any wonder that you’ve snapped?

When you look in his eyes now, you see your own expression reflecting back to you. _Tell me to stop, push me away, anything._

“Bro—_Garrett_,” he says, voice catching. “I—”

You hold him still. He doesn’t try to move. You think you’ll end up standing here for eternity like this, poised on the precipice of something neither of you fully understand. It’s better, maybe, than the alternative. Maybe the only thing you can both do without…

There are such things as points of no return. You’ve never much been a fan of them, all those doors slamming in your face, but you can’t always fight against them either. This would be one of those points. It would be better to turn away from this, ignore it, pretend until it wasn’t pretending any longer. But you can’t, not unless he wants you to. Only then would you be able to and even then it would be a struggle.

You tilt your head just the slightest bit forward, feel his pulse against your lips. You don’t dare move even one more millimeter closer or further away. Your eyes close and you count out numbers slowly, one, two, three, up to twenty-three, when finally he grabs hold of you, grinding your bodies together, his answer in the purest sense of the word. There’s no misconstruing such an action, no matter how unversed you might be in the specifics, how fumbling and awkward it might be for a whole multitude of reasons.

Grabbing your chin, he aligns your mouths, tugging fiercely at your lower lip with his teeth. The sharp, shallow sting of it shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

But it does. Oh, it does. More than you’ll ever be able to articulate.

_You’re the only one I have left,_ he says with his touch, with a kiss. You’re not certain how this is so clear when every other conversation you’ve ever had was fraught with difficulties, but you’re certain this is what he means. Your own answer pulses in your chest in time with your heart.

You believe for the first time in years that everything might one day be okay. Maybe not good. Maybe not right. But okay.

In truth, it’s more than you’ve come to expect from Kirkwall.

If it feels like Kirkwall is laughing at such irony, such tragedy, at you specifically, it wouldn’t be the first time.


End file.
